


Slave to Memory

by ncfan



Series: Valinor in the First, Second and Third Ages [14]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Death, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Gen, M/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Rebirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aredhel is released from the Halls. All is not well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slave to Memory

They had not parted on good terms; they had had words, mother and daughter. But then, Anairë reflects bitterly, she'd not parted on good terms with any of her family. Not with her husband, nor with her sons, nor with her own kin, parents and brother and sister who had decided to go with Nolofinwë, even if Anairë herself would not.

Anairë could see nothing to do about Nolofinwë's departure, nor that of their sons. She couldn't even see anything to do about Elenwë and Itarillë leaving—they were under Turukáno's authority, not Anairë's. But Irissë, Irissë her daughter, Anairë ought to have been able to keep with her. Irissë ought to have heeded the words of her mother and stayed in Aman, where she would be safe.

" _Safe?!" Irissë waves a hand furiously to the window, and the unnatural darkness seeping in through the crack betwixt pane and sill. "How can you say this place is safe?!"_

She didn't stay with her.

Anairë shakes her head and winces as the wagon hits another bump on the road. _Do not dwell on that. It is hurtful, to yourself and others. You have spent long enough dwelling on the painful past, and those who fled Aman paid more for their deeds than could ever be considered just. Especially Irissë. Do not dwell on it._

Long enough has Anairë been alone, having to live with the deaths of parents and siblings and husband and children to know that anger is nothing compared to grief. She found that out the first time she laid down to sleep in the darkness and her husband was not there lying beside her. Anairë has had more than fifteen hundred years to mourn her daughter, and let anger run into grief.

"Mother?"

Findekáno has to shake her shoulder before Anairë realizes that he's trying to catch her attention. Her abstracted blue eyes meet his gray ones, and Findekáno smiles and nods off to the right. "We're here. We should go find her."

It doesn't feel real until Anairë draws a deep breath and her lungs are filled with perfumed air. The Gardens of Lórien. They are here.

Anairë isn't sure how Lord Irmo felt about it when his brother started depositing newly re-embodied Elves in his Garden. Perhaps he was gracious about it, or perhaps the Doomsman got an earful from the Lord of Dreams; from what Anairë understands, Irmo isn't fond of crowds, and while the Gardens are for everyone, being sent there unexpectedly tends to detract from the peaceful mood of the place. The sorts of arguments Valar, especially sibling Valar can have sounds like it would be terrible to behold, and if Nienna got involved… But at the moment, Anairë couldn't care less about sibling arguments between Ainur. At the moment, she is wandering the lush, overgrown gardens with her son, searching for her daughter.

Findekáno was the first of her family to return to her, and for a long time, the only one. 'The Valiant', they call him, so sure that this was the reason for his release from the Halls when his father and siblings did not return. Of the others, they are not spoken of nearly as well, and Anairë can only avoid the arenas of malicious gossip, and tell herself that gossip is nothing compared to truth. She and her oldest son, they have lived alone in what once was a house full of life for nigh on three hundred years—Itarillë is here with her Atan husband, but they dwell elsewhere in Tirion. But they will not be alone anymore. Irissë was released from the Doomsman's care three weeks ago.

There is no sign of her in the sculpted, well-cared-for flower gardens. There is no sign of anyone here on the paths. Lady Estë's absence is understandable; she does sleep during the day, after all. And perhaps her attendants dwell with her during the daylight hours; Anairë can not say. But neither does Anairë see Lord Irmo here, any of the Maiar who have traditionally dwelled in the Gardens, nor even any of the Quendi, seeking rest and healing as they might. There is bird song. There is the wind in the trees, that hoarse, whispery voice, but the Gardens are eerily emptied of people.

A knowing gleam comes into Findekáno's eyes, and he tugs on his mother's sleeve. "Come on." He gives her that lopsided smile of his. "I don't think we're going to find Irissë anywhere on the path."

Off the beaten path, the cedar and yew trees of the Gardens of Lórien grow wild and tangled, though there is still room to move amongst them. The grass is long and whistles in the wind. The only flowers to be found here are the sorts that grow wild, uncultivated, cornflower and loosestrife and thistle. Dappled sunlight twists through the branches of the trees.

Through the trees, set against the crystal-blue of a still pond, there comes a gleam of white.

Anairë stands stock-still, staring. A tall nís walks slowly through the trees, clad in the plain white garb of the newly re-embodied. But oh, the dappled light glows on her skin and her hair, and it is her, it is Irissë, after all.

She's taller than Anairë remembers. That is the first stupid thought that goes through her head, of all the thoughts that could have been. Irissë is taller than she remembers, until Anairë remembers that Irissë was tall to start with, and it's more likely that she'd forgotten. Irissë was taller than her mother by her forty-fifth year—all of Anairë's children are ( _were_ ) taller than her—but for some reason, Irissë out of all of them she imagines in her head as young and small. Her thick, wild black hair looks longer, too, tumbling down her back, but Anairë doesn't think that's her imagination.

How different is she?

That terrible second thought lingers in Anairë's head and keeps her rooted to the ground, afraid to move forward and alert Irissë to her presence. It's been so long; their paths diverged so long ago. How different must she be?

Logically, Anairë knows that Irissë won't be the same. Findekáno came back to her changed, after all. Still his cheerful, good-natured self, but more watchful and thoughtful than she remembers. More wont to wince at cold weather and stare moodily out the window towards the east, as though there's something that ought to be there, but isn't anymore. Something missing. More prone to odd twitches and dark dreams that leave Anairë waking up the next morning to find her living son asleep next to her in her bed as though he is young again and unable to cope with nightmares.

Time spent in the Halls of Waiting is not about being healed of all hurts and forgetting that they ever happened, he tells her. It's about… Well, he will not say what it is about. Findekáno's face always twists whenever he gets to that part, and he does not indulge his mother's curiosity. _I'm not supposed to say,_ he'll tell her. _That's for the dead to know, and no one else. It's not about going back to the way you were before the world turned on you. I'll say that much._

Anairë's heart quails as she looks at her daughter, back turned to her. She is afraid that Irissë will turn about and she'll see a stranger. A pale, shadowed stranger, haunted by the strange and terrible fate that befell her in Endóre. That will be all she'll see, and any joy there was to be found in reunion will be marred by the grief of seeing her daughter, still wounded, and the guilt of knowing that she was not there to prevent it, captivity, marriage and motherhood under bizarre, suspect circumstances.

But Findekáno, it seems, will not let his mother have her moment of cowardice. He spots his sister and cries out, starting to try to climb between the trees to get to her, only to find that the open spaces between the trees aren't quite wide enough to allow him safe passage. "Irissë!"

Irissë starts and whips around, and for one horrible moment she doesn't seem to recognize them, but then recognition floods into her eyes and she rushes up, swinging her arms around her brother's shoulders. "Finno!" She squeaks as she's engulfed in Findekáno's near-crushing embrace. "Missed me, have you?" she says with a grin.

It's as though they've both gone back to the days before the Exile and the Darkening, and Anairë is the only one who remembers aught what's happened since. She stands off to one side awkwardly. "The house has been a bit quiet," Findekáno replies, grinning just as broadly as his sister. "And Tirion has been a bit dull without you there stirring something up."

A sharp, barking laugh escapes from her mouth. "You mean without _us_ stirring something up; I distinctly recall being less often a mastermind and more often an accomplice. To you or to one of our cousins."

Irissë's silver-blue eyes shift from her brother's face, to fall on Anairë's. The grin fades from her lips; furrowed lines dig into her brow. Like she's trying to remember what to say, or just trying to remember her. "Mother," Irissë says, a little uncertain, a little hesitant. More than a little unlike her.

Irissë is freed from her brother's embrace just in time to be folded into her mother's. Where Irissë could easily rest her head against Findekáno's shoulder, Anairë finds that she can do the same with her daughter. Can't hold all of her, can't shelter her, couldn't hold her back, couldn't keep her safe. A hot, hard lump forms in Anairë's throat where air should be. "My dear," she chokes out, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "My dear."

Anairë could hold her for all eternity, but Irissë's back and shoulders are rigid and Findekáno is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and back again. "Can you come back with us now?"

"Yes. Lady Estë seemed to know that you were coming. We said our farewells before dawn this morning."

"Let's go home, then. You've been away far too long."

-0-0-0-

"I'm afraid it's still the same as it was when you left." Irissë stokes the campfire with a long stick, driving the flames upwards; she's insistent on being allowed to do that. "Turukáno and Arakáno won't leave without Father; Elenwë won't leave without Turukáno. Father won't leave without Aunt Lalwen or Grandfather. Aunt Lalwen won't leave without Father or Grandfather. Grandfather won't leave without Fëanáro, and I think we all know that he's not getting out any time soon." The odd half-grimace that many of Fëanáro's kinsmen use when speaking of him these days steals over her face. "And Aikanáro won't leave because apparently Findaráto can do everything in the world except give sound relationship advice, and Artaresto and his Iathrim wife don't want him to be lonely."

Findekáno sighs, shaking his head tiredly. The gold twined in his braids catches on the firelight, looks to be aflame itself. "It sounds very much like the sort of family drama we've grown accustomed to over the Ages." It's impossible not to notice that he makes no inquiry after the relations still in the Halls that have yet to be released. The two who were willing to brave the world without the majority of their loved ones share commiserating looks over the fire.

Anairë has no idea what to say to either of them; they seem to have forgotten her presence entirely. There's something here, something she can't fathom or touch, except to see that it's a wall separating her from them. Experiences that they have shared and she can never guess at, not even in her darkest dreams. _Isn't that always the way?_ she wonders to herself, and tries not to be bitter.

The fire pops and crackles, and Irissë says to her brother, "Maitimo sends you fond regards." She smiles gently, and Anairë remembers for the first time in a long while just how gentle Irissë can be with those she loves. Between the sharp tone she took with Anairë and the gleam of the sword at her hip the last time they met, and the stories told about her even now, Anairë had all but forgotten that her daughter could be gentle too.

That's all it takes for Findekáno's face to light up. "Did he?" He smiles, lopsided, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. And perhaps just a bit tremulous in a way that Anairë knows his sister would never show herself to be. Findekáno nods too-firmly. "I'm glad. I…" He breaks off, staring at the ground. "…I miss him," he says in a small voice, the shadows gathering on his shoulders like the folds of a cloak. "And the others, too."

 _But mostly him_ , Findekáno does not say, but his mother and sister hear him say anyways.

"I've missed you too," Irissë bursts out suddenly, a strange, thwarted look on her face. "And fresh air. And traveling, and the stars, and…" She trails off.

Eventually, they settle down to sleep, Irissë lingering close to the fire, Anairë and Findekáno a little further away. Anairë lingers in wakefulness longer than either of them. While her children can sleep on the cold, hard earth with the best of them (though Turukáno has always much preferred the comforts of a soft bed), Anairë has no love for setting up camp on the side of the road. _Oh well, best get used to it. We've another week and a half before we'll be back in Tirion, at the rate we're going now._

_Tirion…_

Anairë dreads having to tell her daughter what must be said before they arrive back in Tirion.

Rumors and gossip. What is it with Quendi and rumors and gossip? Rumors and gossip concerning Irissë always made her angry, Anairë remembers that much, though she endeavored not to display her anger in public; it just comes with being a member of the royal family, her daughter always said irritably. But before the Darkening and the Exile, the worst rumor and gossip Irissë ever had to contend with was speculations on secret betrothals (namely with one of her cousins) or if the clothes she was wearing were really fit for one of her station. As much as she does not wish it so, Anairë has heard enough of the malicious gossip of Tirion (redoubled since news of Irissë's release from the Halls reached the city) to know what Irissë can expect when she gets home.

_Do you know what they say of you concerning your marriage, your motherhood? Do you know the way that harrowing tale has been twisted? I am fearful to hear your account of your time in the dark woods, fearful to hear what you would have to say of the years you spent with the husband who would eventually send you to your death. What you made of life, either in railing against your fate or just trying to make the best of it, the best of him. I would not blame you for either, but I am afraid to ask. I fear my own guilt and pain, you see. I've felt so much that I cringe away from the very idea of it._

_There are those that name you harlot. Kinslayer and harlot. The charge of Kinslayer I can not contest, for I know the part you played in the massacre of the Swan-Elves of Alqualondë. But I know you did not take pride in it, daughter, for while you are not always gentle, you have never been cruel. As for the charge of harlot, I would stem the words of all who call you that, if I could. There are perhaps not as many who call you 'harlot', but one raised voice amongst a thousand if enough to cause pain. I do not believe it. I can not believe it. You were always so innocent in such matters. After what you endured, it seems determined only to add insult to injury._

And there is Irissë's son as well.

" _It's absolutely abominable to hold a mother accountable for the deeds of her son, especially for deeds committed long after she has died, for deeds she would never have condoned."_ Anairë can't help but take some heart in the fact that it was Itarillë who spoke those words—Itarillë, whose love for her aunt seems not to have been dimmed by her cousin's abhorrent behavior towards her, nor by his betrayal of fair, lost and fair Ondolindë. _"All the same, you know that that is what some do—hold a parent responsible for the sins of a child, just as a child may be considered responsible for their parents' misdeeds. Be careful."_

Her granddaughter has grown great in wisdom, for all that many consider bright and gay Itarillë to exist without a care in the world. Itarillë speaks the truth, and Anairë must be careful. But she must also take care that Irissë does not walk into Tirion blind of all that goes on around her.

She does not know how much Irissë knows about what her son has done. Lómion, called Maeglin, may have joined his mother in the Halls after his betrayal of Ondolindë and subsequent death, but that doesn't mean a great deal. Anairë isn't sure if Irissë knows what her son has done, or if she remains oblivious to it.

What she does know is that Irissë loved her child enough to lay down her life for him. However she got him, whatever the circumstances of his conception, she loved her son enough to die for him. That's another part of her that Anairë will likely never be able to see or know, the part of Irissë that was and may still be a fiercely loving mother. But being a mother herself, Anairë knows that that sort of love may pose problems of its own, in the form of not wishing to face the idea that her child could commit such heinous acts as Lómion did. Anairë knows that if one of her own children had done what he had done, she would not wish to believe it.

 _Tomorrow morning,_ Anairë tells herself. _I will tell her in the morning. I do not think I could bear waking her now to give her such awful news._

-0-0-0-

As it turns out, there's no need; Irissë already knows of her son's deeds (And misdeeds). How she knows, Anairë does not know and Irissë does not say, but the former can guess, and does not pry. Irissë knows what to expect; the matter is over and done with. Anairë ignores the fact that this is _all_ she'd made sure Irissë knows, and tells herself that her daughter is intelligent enough to know what is likely being said of her by those who haven't anything better to do than gossip about the Noldorin royal family. At least it spared her having to relate yet more unpleasant news to one of her children.

They keep on back towards Tirion, and Anairë begins to suspect that her worries of finding her daughter irrevocably changed were baseless all along. She behaves much as she did before the days of the Darkening, bright-eyed and vigorous. She sits up in the front of the wagon with Findekáno or walks alongside it. Irissë's silver-blue eyes roam lovingly over the countryside of her childhood, lost to her for so long. Pink color floods into her pale cheeks.

She peppers her brother with questions on the way home: Does Tirion look very different now, is it still the same nér in charge of the royal stables? Does the wagon train to and from Taniquetil still come, bringing with spices and cloth and crisp, thin air?

Questions are also broached concerning their living kin. Does Indis now dwell among the Vanyar once more? Is Findis with her? Does Nerdanel remain in the city still, tall and unbowed? Are Angaráto and Eldalótë reconciled with one another? Did Findaráto and Amarië ever wed as they had planned to before the Darkening, or did Amarië return to Taniquetil with Indis, her mistress? Does Artanis tarry still in Endóre?

How is Arafinwë as High King? Findekáno snorts at the question, Anairë smiles from her place in the bed of the wagon, and the siblings exchange long glances that seems to convey that which words can not. _Good, but never so good as Father._ Herself, Anairë never had the opportunity to see Nolofinwë—or Findekáno, for that matter—as High King of the Noldor, but everyone who did seems to think that Nolofinwë was far better-suited to the role than Arafinwë ever will be, even the latter's two oldest sons. Poor Arafinwë. He who would have been perfectly content to avoid the burden of Kingship is the one who's ended up holding the crown.

Surprisingly, it is to Anairë that Irissë turns when she cranes her head around and hesitantly asks, "How is Aunt Eärwen?"

"She will not bar the gates of Tirion against you, if that is what you wish to know," Anairë replies, and Irissë visibly relaxes, turning her gaze back northwards.

No, Eärwen is no longer as angry as she once was. Mourning for her people killed in the First Kinslaying has been blunted by time. Her anger has cooled against the kin of her husband, especially her niece and nephews—Anairë's wretched tears when she realized that she might well never see any of her own family again may have helped that process along a bit. And any anger against Irissë herself vanished entirely when news of her niece's final decades of life reached her ears. Eärwen has approached this tale as a mother, imagined Artanis in Irissë's place, and all remaining anger runs to horror and outrage on her niece's behalf.

"And how…" Irissë says this as though it is the most important question in the history of the world "…how is Itarillë?"

Irissë finds that out the moment Tirion upon Túna comes into view. Itarillë is waiting outside the gates, her Atan husband with his silver-shot sandy hair and beard at her side. Anairë's granddaughter is overjoyed to see the one who was as her mother for so long, for there's the sad truth of it—Irissë was mother to Itarillë for far longer than Elenwë was. Irissë and Tuor take to one another immediately, bound by shared fondness for Itarillë. No mention is made of Irissë's son, nor of his misdeeds.

All seems well. Findekáno and Irissë go around to visit their aunt and uncle and re-embodied cousins. Anairë goes back to their house and makes sure that Irissë's old room has been cleaned and aired out; a fine welcome that would be, for Irissë to come home and find her childhood room down in six inches of dust.

Her living son and daughter come up off of the lamp-lit streets long after dark, having supped with their cousins. If not for the darkness of night, Anairë could easily believe that she sees them both as they were before the Darkening and the Exile, without the bitter knowledge of death and suffering upon them. Irissë's sleepy expression is untroubled.

Then, she looks at her room.

There is no Moon tonight, and the stars are obscured by a cloud bank come up from the sea. Irissë takes one look at the near-total darkness and her face waxes white. Despite the mildness of late summer upon them, she lights a fire in the grate and refuses to sleep without it. "There's not enough light in the room" is all she will say.

-0-0-0-

Cracks are showing, stark and jagged and wide. Each and every one of them makes Anairë want to scream when she sees them, whether out of anger or sorrow or terror, she can not say.

Irissë no longer wishes to wander far and wide on her own as she once did in the days of bliss. Once upon a time, Anairë would have been relieved if her daughter suddenly started consenting to have someone go off with her on her wandering, instead of roaming the continent without giving any idea of when she'd be back. Now, it only disturbs her to see the nearly desperate light in her daughter's eyes as she pleads with her brother or one of her cousins to go with her, because really, this isn't like Irissë at all. The Irissë Anairë knew never feared what could become of her in the wild.

She is quieter, too, and more soft-spoken around her kin than she was, wont not to meet their eyes when she speaks to them. Eärwen has noticed; she's asked Anairë if Irissë is perhaps frightened of what she thinks of her, and all Anairë can do is shake her head choppily and say too-cheerily that, no, she doesn't think that's it.

Sometimes, Anairë will wake in the morning and find her daughter lying next to her in bed. Of course, there are mornings when she'll wake and find both of her living children asleep on either side of her, and Anairë won't be able to get up without waking one of them up. But it shouldn't _be_ like this. Even as a child, Irissë didn't crawl into her parents' bed when she suffered from dark dreams; she usually insisted one having one of her parents (almost always her father) come join her in _her_ bed.

Then there is the way Irissë shies away from corridors filled with shadows. She is happiest when Anar (or Vása, as the Exiles-returned call it) is high in the sky, and when Isil (or Rána) is full and fat and gleaming white. The night, Irissë dreads. No, it is not the night. It is the dark that Irissë dreads, for who knows what lurks in the shadows?

And then there are the times when Irissë will slip into Sindarin seemingly without realizing it. She will slide from fluid Quenya into unwieldy Sindarin, and not even notice she's doing it. Findekáno and Findaráto humor her, responding to her in Sindarin and calling her 'Aredhel' even as she calls them 'Fingon' and 'Finrod', though these lapses of hers make them wary. Arafinwë and Itarillë find it alarming, and always put her to rights. At the sight of the expression on Irissë's face when this is pointed out to her, lost and confused and just a little frightened, Anairë sinks her head down in between her hands and cries.

This nís is barely her daughter anymore. It's like watching a stranger walk around wearing Irissë's skin, her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her bones. Like watching a stranger who looks very much like Irissë, and is desperately trying to act like her too, but can never quite manage it. Some fey strangeness lingers with her across time and space and death, lingers still. Fëanáro is supposed to be the fey one in the family, but his niece is just as fey and strange as him.

There is one thing from before the Darkening that has not changed. Anairë doesn't know what to say to her daughter. This is just the same. Anairë had difficulty relating to any of her children; they were all Nolofinwë's, even Turukáno, who at a superficial glance would seem to be rather like his mother. But Irissë… Irissë was strangest of all to Anairë, that bold, bright creature who seemed entirely too alive for the world and too fierce and beautiful to be real. Too restless to be a daughter of Anairë's.

Anairë did not understand her, could not claim even the slightest amount of deep insight into her daughter's psyche. Everyone said to her that Irissë was so candid, but to Anairë, she was a closed book. Her daughter was an enigma that everyone else could figure out with one glance. There was nothing that could alleviate that feeling of profound alienation from the daughter who seemed to move in such a different world from her. Every attempt to bridge the divide just seemed to drive Irissë further away.

And death has only opened the chasm wider.

Not knowing hurts, just as fear of what Irissë might say needles at Anairë's skin, but the former has overrun the latter, and she can not go without knowing any longer. Anairë must know what it is that has left her so changed.

"Why are you acting like this?" she asks her daughter's back bluntly, and from the moment the words leave Anairë's lips, she knows that it was not the right thing to say, not the right way to say it. Irissë is sitting on one of the lowest steps of the back stairwell, staring out into a Sun-drenched world. She turns around and stares up at her mother, her face a mask of incredulity and secrets.

_Who are you to ask such a thing, in such a way? You, who have no idea of what I have endured? You, who will not even offer to be my confidante?_

_I did not mean to say it like that. But please. I can go no longer without some insight into your mind, and this is the only way I can think to uncover it._

"He…" Irissë licks her lips, her voice quiet and flat, her torso still twisted around. Anairë still stands upon the staircase, several steps above her daughter. The chasm yawns between them. If Anairë tries to go to her, she feels as though she will be swallowed up by the endless fall. "…Lord Námo said that normally, someone "in my condition" wouldn't be considered eligible for release from the Halls, that I needed more time and more healing before I could be re-embodied. That he did not wish to send me back into the world when I still needed more time. But he also said that neither Eöl nor I would ever be ready to leave his care so long as we were made to wait in the same place." She grimaces. "And I understand what he meant by that. According to Lord Námo, I was the closer of the two of us to being ready, so…" Aredhel lifts her hands briefly into the air, the universal gesture of 'I really can't explain it any better than that.'

Anairë long ago made a promise to herself that if her son-in-law was ever released from the Doomsman's care, she would sent him right back, slowly and painfully, and Kinslaying taboos be damned, but she refrains from saying as much to her daughter.

"I… I think that I will be alright, Mother."

 _But you're not alright,_ Anairë's heart cries. _That much is obvious to everyone but you. Even I can see it._

"I… He…" Anairë's eyes snap back to her daughter's face. Irissë's stare goes straight through her, strands of black hair falling over her face. She stares not at her mother, nor at the wall opposite her, but at some distant thing that only she can see. "It… wasn't always bad, you know," she says, in that same flat, quiet voice. With a little bit of a shake. "I… It was almost normal, sometimes. And it wasn't always bad. But when it was… What he gave me, and what he took from me…"

Anairë sees deeper into her daughter's mind than she ever has, for all of it spills over onto her face. Her face is creased with ambivalence and indecision. There is frustration, and restlessness, and some dark, secret horror shadowing her skin. She is gaunt and haunted in that moment; the gauntness leaves her, but the haunted expression in the milky pallor of her skin will not. And there is love there, as well. Shadowed, confused, guilty love. In that moment, Irissë is an open book that Anairë wishes could have stayed closed.

**Author's Note:**

> Nolofinwë—Fingolfin  
> Itarillë—Idril  
> Turukáno—Turgon  
> Irissë—Aredhel  
> Findekáno, Finno—Fingon  
> Arakáno—Argon  
> Fëanáro—Fëanor  
> Aikanáro—Aegnor  
> Findaráto—Finrod  
> Artaresto—Orodreth  
> Maitimo—Maedhros  
> Angaráto—Angrod  
> Artanis—Galadriel  
> Arafinwë—Finarfin
> 
> Atan—Man (Plural: Atani) (Quenya)  
> Quendi—Elves (Singular: Quendë) (Quenya)  
> Nís—woman (plural: nissi)  
> Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)  
> Ondolindë—Gondolin (Quenya)  
> Nér—man (plural: neri)  
> Anar—The Sun; called 'Anar the Fire-Golden', in a name originally given to it by the Vanyar, but probably came into use by the rest of the Calaquendi as well (Quenya)  
> Vása—a name given to the Sun by the Noldor, signifying 'The Consumer'; likely a name given to it by the Noldorin Exiles (Quenya)  
> Isil—The Moon; called 'Isil the Sheen', in a name given to it by the Vanyar, but probably came into use by the rest of the Calaquendi as well (Quenya)  
> Rána—a name given to the Moon by the Noldor, signifying 'The Wanderer'; likely a name given to it by the Noldorin Exiles (Quenya)


End file.
